Longing Butterfly
I’m listening to ‘21’ by Melissa Tallon. And it’s bringing back memories. The beginning of a relationship is always so exciting. So thrilling. So new.We don’t have a song. We have no true defining moments. Just moments when there’s been threats to leave. The excitement all essentially ended when he started questioning me – why I couldn’t do this, why I couldn’t do that. And when it got to the point where he said, “my ego just won’t take it. It’s fine if you are at a stage where blah blah blah, but I’m not. I can't stay. I have to move on.”
And I could hear my hopes crumble. The dream shattered. And reality began to sink in. And then it was all a slippery slope on a dark and windy night. Cliff-side, crumbly rock and dashing rains.
But for a little while…. Everything was new and exciting. Days and evenings tinged with pink sunsets and all pastel clouds in hues of pink, mauve and crimson against a pale blue sky.
Afternoons of frenzied and tender love-making, tangled cotton sheets, the coolness of the tiles the bare walls, the coastal breeze lifting the oppression of summer heat. It’s close to a year since this all started. Since you began to take an active interest in me, and offer me rides home – an hour and a half on the roads, half an hour out of your way. And me so clueless and grateful for not having to brave the summer commuter traffic or pay for a weekly train fare.
You introduced me to a world of fancy dinners, opera, and what it means to be loved by a man. It all seemed so exciting. So much above and beyond my own life – which had become dreary and dull in comparison. Boring. Been there, done that.
But these days when I go home, and wake up and smell the familiar smells that characterise ‘home’ and my past, I can’t help but feel the waves of nostalgia wash over me. And wish for better days – an easier life. When I wasn’t required to do any more than come home and sit in front of the television, eat dinner, wash dishes – if I felt like it – and then retreat to my room to surf the net. And all the while I had a mother who adored me and worshipped the floors I walked on.
These days, she talks to me mainly through my brother. “Ask her if she wants any salad” “Does she want any breakfast?” Like I was a friend of his who doesn’t speak her language and needs him to translate. At least she’s not screaming at me anymore.
I wish I could put all my feelings onto this screen. I wish I could express all these emotions that are rolled together. They’re almost tangible. I can almost imagine the tangled ball in my hands, and I’m so tempted to just dump them all on here. But I can’t. because emotions aren’t physical. I can’t put them on this screen. I can’t leave them here on the ether. I can’t throw them into the abyss.
At the age of 23, I can honestly say that I have regrets. I regret the way I left home. That feeling of loss and betrayal of myself, wounded me to the core. Well, maybe not to the core per se, but enough to leave a lasting impression on me. And I wish I had her blessing on all of this.
My life seems so surreal these days. If I don’t think about it, I just go through the motions. But mum’s right in a way – there’ll be no true excitement when we get married. It will all be old school. Been there. Done that. House shopping? Done. New sheets, furniture, kitchenware, done that too.
The romance is out of this relationship. Now it’s just tender love. We’ve begun to take the love for granted a little. I can feel us settle into routine. We come home, make dinner, watch tv, cuddle a little on the couch and tell each other how much we love them, then go to bed. We wake groggily in the morning and go to work. And the cycle repeats. Wash, rinse, dry.
And yet strangely, it's still more exciting than my old life. Except when I pause to sit down and think about it. And I wish for the familiar trappings of family.
The grass is always greener on the other side.
posted by Enigmatic Butterfly @ 11:50 am
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